


just a double album

by emullz



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, F/M, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emullz/pseuds/emullz
Summary: Their first gig wasn’t a gig so much as them showing up at the Boneyard on a Saturday night and playing a couple covers, throwing in an original Kie had written and JJ had tweaked to make it faster, more crowd-pleasing. She called it sellout shit but even she couldn’t deny how much the crowd loved it, how intoxicating the energy was.They stumbled back to the Chateau and collapsed on the couch, all of them on top of each other until nobody could tell whose limbs belong to who. It was a drawback of having most of the room taken up with their instruments, but none of them minded much.(the pogues form a band and i cry over it)((basically a retelling of canon if there were no gold and all the characters knew how to play musical instruments))
Relationships: JJ/Kiara (Outer Banks), Sarah Cameron/John B. Routledge
Comments: 16
Kudos: 50





	just a double album

**Author's Note:**

> The graphic depiction of violence warning is because of a scene towards the end of chapter 1-- I personally don't think it's that bad but the warning is there out of an abundance of caution. It's only around 3 paragraphs so it should be easy to skip if you need to, keep yourself safe if that's triggering! There's also minor mentions of drug use in that same section, but nothing that goes further than the show itself but again, don't want anything to surprise anyone. Let me know if there's any other warnings I should put here and I'd be happy to do so.
> 
> The title is adapted from a quote Kiara said towards the beginning of the show that really got me thinking about this idea for a fic. All the song lyrics are my own but they are based on tunes and melodies of songs I actually listen to, so props if you care enough to figure that out. It's just to get rhythms and syllables down in my head but I'd be happy to talk about them in the comments if anyone's interested.
> 
> Ok anyways I'm gonna go hope you enjoy the fic:)

It all started when JJ pulled a wad of crumpled bills out of his back pocket. They were passing a flask around at the Boneyard, swatting as horseflies and talking about nothing. He smiled, wide, so his eyeteeth were showing. “I got it.

Pope stopped and stared, the flask dangling loosely between his fingers. It was the longest he’d held the thing since JJ swiped it in middle school. Kie and John B weren’t much better with their slack-jawed stares. “Where’d you steal that from?” Pope asked.

JJ whistled through his teeth. “How rude of you to assume,” he said. “I came by this honestly. A year’s worth of whatever lunch money I could convince my dad to hand over, plus tips from the club.”

“You little shit,” Kie said, because she’d been giving JJ food from her own lunch for just as long. But she couldn’t stay mad, because John B was already whooping, jumping up and clapping JJ on the back.

“This is it, baby!” he crowed. JJ joined in and soon they were howling like dogs. Kie held her hand out for the flask and took a long pull. She grimaced at the boys or the alcohol or both, she couldn’t tell.

JJ tossed the money on the sand between them and snatched the flask out of Kie’s grasp. “Now we just need to figure out where to keep them.”

“They’re yours,” Pope said, but JJ was already shaking his head.

“Drums are loud as shit, man. Can’t have that in my house. Kie, what about you?”

But she couldn’t, either: “There’s a neighborhood association, no loud noises. Garage bands included.”

Pope shook his head before they could even ask. Not that they would have in the first place, nobody wanted to confront Heyward about yet another reason his son wouldn’t be doing grocery runs or homework.

“Let me talk to my dad,” said John B, and everyone turned to stare at him. The Chateau was tiny, and cluttered to hell. Where were they going to fit a drum kit? But John B scooped up the money and shoved it into the pocket of his board shorts, a cautious grin on his face. “Guys. We’re doing this.”

* * *

Looking for used drum & percussion gear? Browse a wide variety here:

**FOR SALE: used Gretsch drums. Slight repairs needed. Price on request***

**SOLD**

* * *

“He won’t let us use his office,” said John B as the four of them pulled up to the Chateau, “but we cleared out one of the couches and if it’s raining or he’s gone, we can cram in the main room. Otherwise it’s tarps and extension cords on the lawn.”

JJ flung the door open the second John B slowed down enough he wouldn’t get road burn throwing himself out of the car. He opened the back with the same intensity, running his hands over the drums lying deconstructed in the backseat. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re broken,” said Kie, and JJ gasped in mock horror. He was rewarded with a grin and Kie’s middle finger, in that order.

“I’ll have them fixed up in no time,” he said, voice strained as he lifted the snare. “Guys from the Cut learn how to use their hands early and well.”

“Fuck off.”

“Help me carry these.”

It took JJ a month to fix the drums, and all four of them another month to figure out how to play together. They were all self-taught, including Kie, who quit piano lessons at ten and picked up the bass herself at twelve. John B had only ever played bad covers of indie songs for tourons at keggers, and Pope thought YouTube tutorials were gospel.

But they had things to say, and eventually they figured out how to say them. Their first gig wasn’t a gig so much as them showing up at the Boneyard on a Saturday night and playing a couple covers, throwing in an original Kie had written and JJ had tweaked to make it faster, more crowd-pleasing. She called it sellout shit but even she couldn’t deny how much the crowd loved it, how intoxicating the energy was.

They stumbled back to the Chateau and collapsed on the couch, all of them on top of each other until nobody could tell whose limbs belong to who. It was a drawback of having most of the room taken up with their instruments, but none of them minded much. John B smacked a wet kiss to Pope’s temple and then rolled off the couch, dislodging everyone so they all fell with him. They would have been worried the fall would wake Big John if he didn’t sleep through everything.

“I got something to show you,” he said, helping up Kie and Pope and sticking his tongue out at JJ.

They trooped into the kitchen, eyes immediately drawn to the counter by the stove. It was covered in cobbled-together recording equipment, wires cascading everywhere. It was a good thing they never used the kitchen to actually cook, because they probably would have shorted a circuit or something. It looked like a tangled mess, but it also looked like it might be functional. “Dude,” Kie said, impressed. “Does this work?”

John B shrugged, looking sheepish. “Turns out it requires the same approach as fixing boats, you know? Keep trying whatever you can think of until something works.”

Pope tapped a finger on the microphone, watching the sound spike on John B’s open laptop. “We can record now?”

“I mean, there might be kinks we have to work out—“ JJ made a face and Kie swatted at him “—but yeah, with some work we could have a demo.”

“This is fucking _real_ ,” said JJ, excitement warring with disbelief on his face. “We’re doing this. Like, iTunes level doing this.”

“It’s Apple Music now.”

“Why would I know that? My Spotify still has ads.”

Kie rolled her eyes. “You have shit taste anyways.”

Pope and John B ignored the fight that was escalating behind them in favor of testing the equipment, making sure it picked up with the mic was pointed at. They played Kie’s defense of ‘90s music back at her, saving the file even when she demanded they delete it. Eventually they calmed down enough to try recording the song they’d played at the Boneyard. Then they spiraled into another take and another argument, but in a couple hours they had something they could use.

* * *

DIVER_DOWN_demo.mp3

when I say diver down / what I mean is come back up / just one tank of air and another of trust

* * *

The problem was that life didn’t stop for music. Before they could blink the school year started and Kie was back at the Kook Academy, Pope was buried in Aps, and JJ was skipping more than he was going. But that would have been fine, because that was mostly normal. They had rehearsal after school (when the waves weren’t good, obviously), they played gigs on the weekends, they zoned out in class to work on songs, or, in JJ’s case, take naps that he insisted were integral to his creative process. They could work with normal.

Then in February Big John Routledge went out on his boat and never came back, and everything stopped. JJ stayed at the Chateau for weeks while John B sat, silent, first waiting for news about his father and then waiting for CPS to locate his uncle. There was no music, there was no writing. There was just quiet. Kie dropped off meals from The Wreck. Pope slid completed homework assignments under the door.

After a while, “lost at sea” turned into “presumed dead” turned into nothing at all. Uncle T came and left for Mississippi. JJ went home and dealt with the consequences of being gone so long.

John B locked the door and came out three days later, slapped a beat up piece of paper with the lyrics to “Bird” on it, and acted like nothing had ever happened.

The rest of the group took it in stride. They’d been missing their dumb band for three months and didn’t want to miss it any longer. John B turned his dad’s room into a studio, a permanent home for JJ’s hard-earned drum kit and his own beat up guitar. Kie insisted on lugging her bass back and forth because she claimed the roof was structurally unsound and could leak at any minute, but they all knew it was because she didn’t like to be away from her baby for too long.

But it wasn’t like the summer, when they had time stretched out in front of them like a picnic blanket on the sand to do whatever they wanted with. They didn’t have the luxury of doing nothing, especially not John B. He was supposed to keep his grades up, work with his head down, pretend Uncle T was still sleeping on his couch and not somewhere in the middle of the country.

Then JJ texted one Friday morning to take the time back. Kie had pulled into the school parking lot, her phone buzzing with a message from _JJ Maybitch_. She had to remember to put it on Do Not Disturb so no one knew she was getting messages in a chat called something as dumb as Wiggity Wiggity with six middle finger emojis. She didn’t care what the Kooks thought of her, true, but she also didn’t name the group chat and refused to take the heat for it.

_come surf_ , JJ sent, and then seconds later. _@_ _beach. now._

_Can’t_ , she typed back. _Presentation in lit._

JJ’s response was immediate: _10 ft swells probably more lit_

Kie sat for a minute, groaned, and then dialed Pope’s number. “You get JJ’s text?”

His voice was just as resigned as hers was. “Yeah. I don’t know if we should, though –“

“John B’s coming?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything you have can wait for Monday. Your impression of my dad still good?”

Pope pitched his voice lower and rougher. “I’ve had years of practice, Ms. Carrera. I assume you can still do my mom?”

“Obviously,” Kie snorted. “Remember, you’re –“

“I’m out sourcing seafood and I borrowed someone’s phone to call in, I know. You don’t need to worry about doing that for me, my school doesn’t care enough to check caller ID.”

Kie heard a car beep in the background and knew John B was outside for Pope. “Go,” she said, starting her own car. “I’ll meet you guys there.”

The surfing was just as good as JJ promised, even better because there was something else they were skipping. The day felt borrowed from someone else’s life. Or maybe from their old life, Kie wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that she was fully content, that she could see John B smiling in a way that reaching his eyes, laughing at something weird that Pope said. That the sun was warm, and they were okay.

Kie and Pope were the two that brought lunch from home so they shared what little they had, slapping JJ and John B’s hands away when they tried to take some of Pope’s share. They spread out old blankets from John B’s car on the ground and lay out to dry after spending hours in the waves.

JJ was tapping out a rhythm on his stomach, and then Kie was humming and John B was joining in. Thank God Pope had the presence of mind to pull out his phone a record. By the time they drove back to the Chateau, covered in sand, they had a song. By dinner, they had three.

“Let’s record,” Pope said, eyes feverish with the excitement of what they were making. “Like a first look. I bet it’ll come out cool, you know? Raw.”

JJ held up a hand for Pope to slow down and promptly stuck the van key into a can of PBR. “Really?” John B asked, watching the beer drip off JJ’s chin and onto the floor. “You _had_ to do that first?”

He burped and then said, “gotta be loose to make magic.”

Kie threw a pillow at him. He dodged, and she threw another one.

Before the fight could escalate Pope grabbed a pair of drumsticks and handed them to JJ/ John B sopped the beer off the floor with one of the fallen pillows, and Pope wrinkled his nose. “Okay, okay, into the studio before this gets any worse.”

What they recorded was as rough as rough cuts could possibly get, with Kie messing up the lyrics and breaking out into laughter, JJ speeding up the tempo just to fuck with Pope, and John B going rogue with a tambourine. They huddled on the bed to listen back to the tracks and they agreed that even though the recordings were riddled with mistakes, the songs were good. Meaningful, and fun.

When John B spoke, his voice was quiet: “Do you think we could record Bird? Since everything’s set up, I mean.”

Kie and Pope exchanged a look but neither of them could think of a reason to say no. It was a good song, and John B seemed okay. He’d had a good day. He could do this.

The song was simple, just John B on his guitar and JJ tapping softly on the hi-hat with a wire brush to keep time. Kie came in on the harmony for the final chorus and messed up the first take. She apologized profusely but John B just waved her off and started over right away. For once JJ was solemn while he played, his tempo as steady as if he were a metronome. Pope lay sprawled out on the couch, frozen as he watched the performance.

And God, was it a performance. John B was crooning into the mic, his voice somehow raspy and smooth at the same time, mixing with Kie’s like they were one voice. He started crying during the bridge. They could hear it in his breathing. JJ stopped playing and let John B finish out the song by himself, feeling nervous and proud.

When John B sang the final note he said thickly, “I think we got it,” and that was it. He was sobbing like they hadn’t ever seen him, big, heaving sobs that made his entire body shake like he was a boat in a hurricane. Pope looked helplessly around the room, his expression mirroring Kie’s.

Surprisingly it was JJ who got up first, pulling John B into his chest and holding on, hard. “He’d be proud of you, Bird,” he whispered into John B’s shoulder, and then they were all there, holding on.

* * *

BIRD_final.mp3

you’re why I know the lighthouse has 257 steps / why I climb them when I shouldn’t with my best friends / all the things I get up to when I tell you I’ll be gone / I only do cause I know you’ll be awake when I get home / saying Bird I’ll be with you till the end / I’m stuck in now and you’ll always be then

* * *

The transition from playing covers of shitty party songs to their own stuff would have been easy if it didn’t mean coming up with a band name. It was Pope’s fault, really, for making a mock-up of an album cover with the name “Something Goes Here,” which JJ thought was hilarious and needed no revision. Kie was fighting for Climate Strike, which everyone thought was stupid, including Kie a little bit. They ended up on bandnamesgenerator.com, which Pope objected to on principle of plagiarism.

Eventually everyone turned to look at John B, who had been uncharacteristically quiet about his own ideas, only speaking up to shoot down the horrible names everyone else was volunteering. When they called him out on it, he shrugged. “I just figured we’d call ourselves The Pogues and be done with it.”

Pope groaned. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You were too busy trying to keep us from being called the Menstrual Sasses, man. I don’t blame you.” Kie opened her mouth to ask a question but John B beat her to it: “And yes, there are environmental implications. The pogues are the ones you throw back, right? Those are our current regulations at work.”

“That’s actually kind of right.”

“No need to sound so surprised.”

JJ’s nose wrinkled as he contemplated the idea. “Would we have to use a fish theme for the album art, or are we going with it as a metaphor?”

“Imagine JJ playing the drums with a fish costume on,” Pope said, sucking in his cheeks in an approximation of total stupidity. JJ scowled by Kie reached up and pinched his cheeks in one hand until he relented, joining in on the joke.

A band name meant posters and an Instagram and a YouTube channel where they posted footage of live performances. They played at the Boneyard almost every weekend, and at The Wreck, which got them a few slots at other bars or restaurants that would let up and coming talent play with only a free meal as compensation. At first it was just friends who came, people from school or surf buddies. But then they started to reach more people, book more gigs.

As much as they didn’t want to admit it, though, it was Sarah Cameron who was responsible for their big break. She was always the first to climb to the top of the lifeguard stand when they played on the beach, amps hooked up to John B’s vans through questionable methods only JJ understood. Her boyfriend didn’t like it so much but Sarah didn’t pay him any attention, dancing with her solo cup held in the air.

But to explain why Sarah recommended The Pogues to her father as entertainment, John B would also have to explain how he got fired. He didn’t tell the whole story even to The Pogues, because they were the ones who convinced him to borrow the scuba gear that became the problem. Exploring a post-hurricane wreck was everyone’s idea, but it was he and Sarah’s secret, and it was his job that was gone. His next meal that vanished off the table when Ward fired him for taking gear.

Sarah insisted she didn’t tell her father, and John B didn’t know whether to believe her. But when she told him she convinced her dad to let them play at Midsummer’s, he forgave her on the spot. Ward was being crowned king of something or other, she explained, so he had influence. And, well, Sarah had said the kid he fired from working on his boats had turned over a new leaf, started a band with a friend from the club and some kids from his school. They had good original songs, all about the Outer Banks, perfect for a local event like this one. Apparently Ward felt like giving them a second chance, because they got a 30 minute set at the end of the night.

Kie didn’t like the idea, but then again Kie didn’t want to go anywhere near Midsummer’s. All they had to do was get her to grudgingly agree that this was a good opportunity to convince her parents being in a band wasn’t a waste of time and agree to some of her terms, and she was in.

So they mingled around until their set, Pope alternating between helping his dad with the food and setting up the stage. JJ danced over to Kie after stuffing his face full of crab cakes, grinning and tossing back a glass of champagne someone had left abandoned on a table. He leaned over and muttered in her ear, breath hot, “Rose looks like Lady Liberty.”

Kie laughed but didn’t stop scrolling on her phone, tossing her hair impatiently over her shoulder. “Yeah, she does.”

“You look like Queen Mab.”

“Do you even know who that is?”

Now it was JJ’s turn to laugh: “Um, yes, obviously. Fairy queen, very hot, turns men crazy.”

“Okay, dumbass, go make sure you’re not gonna embarrass us,” Kie said, shoving him towards the stage. She’d dressed up to please her mother, putting on a silky dress and even letting her wind a crown of flowers in Kie’s hair. She’d take Queen Mab. Especially since JJ hadn’t managed to find a tie or even iron his shirt.

They were all used to playing in beach clothes, but Sarah had said black tie so they did their best. “Black tie and no dinner,” Pope pointed out as he looked longingly at the food his dad had cooked. “I’m fucking hungry.”

But the clothes, the food, none of it mattered once Sarah turned the stage lights on and gave them the go. JJ started them right off with Diver Down, launching into the fast beat that usually had people jumping up and down. The elite of Figure Eight weren’t quite as enthusiastic, but they still danced. John B watched Sarah spin Wheezy around, both of them laughing wildly.

Their set was only around six songs but they threw in a couple of covers at the end, for the parents. Fleetwood Mac, some Billy Joel. As Pope affectionately called it, white people shit. The only people who weren’t excited about those songs were Rafe and his posse, leaning stone-faced against the wall with their arms crossed. Sarah tried to pull Topper onto the dance floor but he refused, leaving her to go back to Wheezy, shrugging.

And then it was time. Their final song was new, and it was good. They knew it was. But Kie had been the one who pushed for them to play it at Midsummer’s. It was a condition of her going along with the plan: they play the song JJ wrote about the Cut after a particularly productive nap during history class. “If we’re going to be their entertainment,” she saidm “we’re gonna show them how we were made.”

John B held his last note as they finished their last cover, country club members clapping politely. He stepped up to the mic, pushing at his sleeves to keep them rolled up above his elbows. “Thank you guys for being such a great audience, and congratulations again to Ward Cameron. Big night for the Camerons.”

Ward smiled but his expression was still guarded. Sarah appeared at his side, whispering something in his ear, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“As some of you probably know, we were born and raised here in OBX. I think you might recognize us, we’ve worked for a lot of you before. We wrote a song about it that we’d like to play for you, if you’re up for one more?”

Scattered cheers and applause was good enough for JJ to lean into the mic and start singing. It was just his voice and John B’s guitar alone for the first verse, a kind of call and response that mirrored how they felt about their music: they shouted, and it shouted back.

Nobody was dancing anymore. By the time Kie came in with the harmony and the bass on the chorus, joining Pope's guitar riff that twinned with John B's, the crowd was frowning or muttering to each other. The only one who looked excited about the song was Sarah. It was obvious to John B that she was trying to hide a smile; she knew they’d do this and she definitely knew it would piss people off.

At the final chorus everyone stopped playing but JJ. He kept going at full force, pounding the bat over the murmurs of the crowd as they all sang into the microphone: “go full kook / live like we’re the serfs but you’re no duke / get some money and we’re just like you / aristocracy in this place we’ve always loved / except that we won’t fuck it up.”

Silence reigned for a long moment before John B stepped up the mic and said, just as cheerfully as he had before the set even started, “thanks! We’re The Pogues, you can look us up on Spotify!”

Pope had ducked off right at the end of the song to enlist the catering staff’s help in getting their setup out of there as fast as possible. Even his dad was in on it, hauling an amp out back to his truck. Pope, John B, and Kie handed their instruments to some of JJ’s friends in their slick black suits.

They weren’t stupid. They knew who’d they have to deal with on the way out.

Rafe caught them by the coat check, just him blocking their path with his arms crossed in front of him. John B had stayed behind to talk to Sarah in the kitchens, a meeting which made it possible for Topper to grab Pope and Kelse Kie when they jumped out from behind a side door. JJ rolled his shoulders back, stretching for the fight he knew was coming.

“Cute little song you wrote there,” said Rafe, voice low and dangerous.

JJ could tell by the way Rafe stepped forward that he was on something. Good shit, probably, if he was getting it from Barry. Good enough that there’d be no reasoning with him, so JJ might as well get the shots in while he could. “Thanks, man. Did you get the chorus? Aristocracy’s a big word, I don’t know if even your Kook school is good enough to teach you that one.”

Rafe didn’t say anything, just spit on the floor between JJ’s feet. The nice, polished floor that JJ would have been mopping if he were working that night.

“What, can’t even come up with any little words to respond? Real classy.” JJ turned around to address Topper and Kelse. “If you could just let me and my friends go, since we’ve got somewhere better to be? That would be great.”

JJ could hear Rafe take another step towards him. “Ever since little sluts like her showed up, yeah, I’d say the Academy’s going downhill. Wouldn’t you, Topper?”

It was like Kie knew what JJ was going to do before he did, because she was yelling “JJ, no!” as his vision went white, shoving an elbow backwards into Kelse and grinding her heel into the top of his foot so she could reach for him and try to pull him back.

She was too late. JJ whirled and swung his fist into Rafe’s jaw, the sharp burst of pain across his knuckles not enough to snap him out of his blind rage. Rage stumbled against the wall but used it to rebound his momentum and tackle JJ around his middle. They rolled on the floor, grappling, each pressing the other painfully into the marble floor. JJ could hear the thud of Topper throwing Pope onto the ground next to him but then lost track as Kelse’s Italian leather shoe connected with his head.

Everything was ringing loud in his ears with the muffled sound of fighting. Suddenly that noise dropped out and it was just ringing, with nothing behind it but the receding thud of Kook footsteps. JJ felt hands on his arms, pulling him up and towards the parking lot. He heard Kie speaking as if underwater: “Come on, come on,” she urged, helping him stay upright as he stumbled across the pavement and into the backseat of her car. The back of his neck felt sticky and wet so he let it loll forward instead of back against the headrest.

“Where’d they get you?” Kie asked Pope, who responded by turning to face her, one hand pinched over his nose and the other cupped underneath, catching the steady drip of blood. “It doesn’t look broken.”

“I don’t think it is,” Pope said, voice thick.

The floor swam in front of JJ’s eyes, so he let his head sink to his knees. The ringing was getting louder, or he was too dizzy to listen, because he didn’t hear Kie when she asked “JJ? You okay back there?”

Pope swore quietly while Kie waited for a response, giving up on trying to keep his button-down clean and using it to put pressure on his nose. “JJ?” Kie said again, and then she twisted her body and saw him slumped over, the hair on the back of his head matted down with blood. “Shit, JJ! Pope, get back there and help him!”

She pressed on the gas as Pope climbed over the center console and into the backseat. He ran his hands through JJ’s hair until he found the cut, made worse by the fact that the area around it was swollen, making it bleed even more. “I need something to put on it,” Pope said, looking around the backseat helplessly.

“Use your shirt,” Kie said. Her voice was frantic and thin as she sped towards the Chateau.

“I can’t, it’s all bloody from being on my face.”

“Okay, then use his!”

Pope tore at JJ’s button-down, feeling stitches tear under his fingers. JJ didn’t say anything, just stared glassy-eyed at the floor. When Pope jostled his head to push the shirt off his shoulders he retched, heaving up the appetizers he’d snuck so excitedly at the beginning of the night onto the floor. “It’s fine,” Pope said to Kiara, still working the shirt down JJ’s arms. “Just keep driving, we’re fine.”

JJ groaned when Pope finally pressed the fabric against his head, trying to pull away from the pressure. Pope held firm, though, his own bloody nose forgotten as he tapped against JJ’s cheek to keep him awake. “How much longer?” he asked, almost glad his nose was fucked up so he couldn’t smell what JJ had left on the floor.

“Five minutes.” Kie fought to keep the panic out of her voice as she took a left as gently as she could.

Five minutes was long enough for JJ to throw up again, this time just spit that he wiped on the back of his hand. “If you fucking let go of me I wouldn’t do that,” he muttered to Pope, who didn’t dignify it with a response.

John B was already back when they pulled into the driveway, each of them under one of JJ’s arms as they helped him stumble into the living room and onto the couch. “What the hell?” John B started, and Kie could understand why. JJ was bloody and shirtless and he could barely stand up on his own, but she didn’t have time to explain it.

“Pope, what do you need?” she asked, already on her way to the bathroom where she knew Big John used to store the first aid kit.

“Ice,” he called back. “And towels, rags, whatever you can find that’s absorbent.”

Five more frantic minutes later and Kie was sitting on the couch with JJ’s head in her lap. She tapped on his forehead to quietly remind him that he shouldn’t go to sleep. She didn’t think anyone could doze off with their head lying on a block of ice, even if it was wrapped in two layers of towels, but if anyone could it would be JJ. Pope had wrapped gauze and tape around JJ’s knuckles and told the whole story to John B, his face expressionless as he tried not to bother his nose.

Kie looked down at JJ and pushed his hair off of his forehead. His eyes flew open and he looked at her, smiling a little. She squinted at him, looking into the blue eyes she’d seen hundreds of times in thousands of ways. After a long moment she knocked her knuckles against his forehead, satisfied his gaze was clear. “That was stupid.”

“Mmm,” he answered, his eyes fluttering closed again. “Unavoidable. He was coked up.”

“Really?”

“I know what it looks like,” said JJ. Kie knew what he meant, but she also knew how he’d react if she said anything so she just let him lie there, and rest. “We weren’t getting out of that one. He had us outnumbered, too, since you’re a no good pacifist.”

She couldn’t help but smile as he wrinkled his nose on the word pacifist. “I have my ways.”

“Speaking of my ways,” John B cut in, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone, “I got it.”

“You got it?” JJ tried to sit up but Kie shoved him back down onto the ice pack as gently as she could, given the circumstaces.

John B compromised by tossing his phone so it landed on JJ’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him. “It’s all there.”

JJ lifted it up to see five audio files. He clicked play on one, and the first several bars of Diver Down sounded, the audio quality gritty and somehow electric. “We got our EP!” JJ shouted, and then John B, and then Pope. Listening to them, to her boys, Kie couldn’t help it. She joined in, and the four of them shouted until they were hoarse.

* * *

full kook from LIVE AT MIDSUMMER’S—EP by The Pogues

black eye, split lip / grab your sunscreen come and take a trip / go 18 holes / generator’s 120 volts / heavy heat means we can’t breathe on the Cut / as they skate through Figure Eight built from blood

**Author's Note:**

> k this was written purely because i wanted to read a fic like this. even though it's like 99% wish fulfillment i 100% would love to hear what y'all think so please please leave a comment because it sustains me. 
> 
> given the fact that the world is on fire and i can't bring myself to write my final essays for the term i will hopefully be putting out the next two chapters soon, although with me that's less of a promise and more of a light suggestion. regardless thank you for reading, i'm on tumblr under the same username (emullz) if u wanna chat about whatever but otherwise thank you again for reading, and doing whatever else you did- kudos, commenting, the works. it means a lot<3


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